


What's a Guy Like You Doing in a Place Like This

by sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: Sunglasses (MCU vamp/were universe) [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Bucky's so done with this, Clint is a terrible vampire, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves, use of the whammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28291644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: Clint Barton really is the worst vampire ever, and somehow, Bucky's on speed dial as his rescuer. The thing is... even dealing with his own problems, a newly-made Stevie, and all the drama around the Winter Summit -- Bucky can'tquitebring himself to mind.A 5+1 fic for Winterhawk Wonderland: Five Times It Wasn't A Date, and One Time It Actually Was.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Sunglasses (MCU vamp/were universe) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072304
Comments: 43
Kudos: 178
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	1. The Bathroom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> This is for CB! her prompt was:
>
>> give me that good supernatural juice - one of them is a mythical creature
> 
> and I remembered that I had once written a vampire/werewolf winterhawk fic and, well, that was the end of it. (You absolutely don't need to read the first for any of this.)
> 
> CB, hope you enjoy!! There are 6 short chapters to this which will be posted over today and tomorrow (so _I'm_ not spamming the tag). Love you!! HAPPY HOLIDAYS and happy Winterhawk Wonderland!

It’s a McDonalds.

Bucky pulls his car into a space and puts it in park, a bit disbelieving. A bit confused. Somewhere inside this McDonalds, apparently, Clint Barton - holder of the _Worst Vampire Ever_ title - has tucked himself away to avoid the sunrise.

He calls Natalia. “A McDonalds?”

Her sigh has become familiar. This is, in fact, the fourth time Bucky has been called during daylight hours to go rescue Clint. “I just know where he is, James. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

Bucky shakes his head, climbing out of the car. “I’ve got the tarp. Guess I’ll go see where he’s tucked himself this time.”

“If it’s the oven,” says Natalia, fondly, “send a photograph.”

“You don’t photograph,” Bucky tells her, and hangs up.

Bucky enters the McDonalds. It’s early morning, probably around 8:00, and it smells like any other morning in a fast food restaurant: good, sweet, greasy, and a tiny bit nauseating. The employees and the customers all have a kind of blissed-out look to them, and Bucky can taste Clint’s magic in the air: it’s the bloodtang of vampire mixed with Clint’s own fresh scent, that’s something like fresh laundry and bread rising. That makes sense, Bucky has to admit; none of them want the customers to realize that there’s an actual vampire hiding somewhere in the restaurant.

“Hi,” Bucky says to the cashier, letting a little bit of his own werewolf force pour into his voice. “I’m looking for — a guest?”

The cashier gives him her loveliest, dreamiest smile, and gestures to the hallway with the restrooms.

 _Jesus,_ Clint.

Bucky stands in the hallway and glances between the doors. If Clint has locked himself in a bathroom stall, Bucky might just leave his dumb ass there.

He knows vampire hearing is as sensitive as his own - more or less - so he just says, “Clint?”

“Oh, thank god. Buck, I need an Egg McMuffin, stat.”

Bucky turns around. Yes, it appears that famous, long-lived, stupidly attractive Clint Barton, vampire, has locked himself into the handicapped stall.

“Clint.” Bucky wants to roll his eyes, even though it’ll do nothing. “Why are you trapped in a McDonalds?”

“Cause the sun came up, duh,” Clint says. “Here, I can even shove cash under the door. An Egg McMuffin and a coffee, man, be a bro and help me out.”

He’s so irritating. Clint just seems to have this absolute disregard for his own life. Which doesn’t make any sense, because Bucky knows he’s as old a vampire as Natalia - they don’t talk about Budapest - so he’s managed to survive this long, but… Bucky always wonders, how? Bucky’s come to be a bit fond of him, even as annoying as it is to have to deal with this all the time, and he doesn’t want to see Clint slip up and Burn.

“That isn’t the answer I was looking for,” Bucky says. “Why were you in a McDonalds and not, you know, _heading home to your lair?_ ”

“Cause I was _hungry,_ Buck. Stop asking stupid questions.” Bucky hears the rustling and glances down to find a crumpled $5 bill shoved out between his boots.

“Natalia sent me with the tarp,” Bucky says instead. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Right,” Clint tells him. “Hang it up over the door, like — the corners should self-seal to the wall, alright, hang it in front of the door like a curtain, to cover the cracks. Then go get my McMuffin. Oh, here, look.” Another crumpled $5 emerges from beneath the door. “Get yourself one too.”

Bucky picks up both bills, looks at them, and sighs.

The tarp does in fact seal itself to the wall, over the door, and Bucky can feel the magic in it. It isn’t vampire or were: witch magic, probably. He knows Natalia has dealings with the Scarlet Witch; it’s probably her work. He hangs it carefully so that it covers the entire door to the handicapped bathroom, and then goes to buy some trashy breakfast food.

Because Bucky, despite all of his reservations and common sense, kind of has a _thing_ for Clint. A small thing. A stupid thing, probably, because Clint’s going to mess up one day and that’ll be all there is to it.

As he returns to the hallway with a bag of sandwiches and two hot coffees, he hears the door open behind the tarp, and makes sure he’s standing there, glare in place, when Clint comes into view through the two-inch opening he’s created. He’s sitting crosslegged on the floor, grinning up at Bucky, completely not caring that he’s on the floor in a McDonalds bathroom behind a magic tarp.

“Hey, Bucky! Breakfast date?”

“I hate you,” Bucky tells him, but he sits down on the ground and passes a McMuffin and a coffee through the door opening. “Close that, will you? The whole point of this is to make sure you _don’t_ burn up.”

“That’s what the tarp’s for,” Clint says cheerfully. “And I wanted to see your face.”

“I hope it’s telling you how stupid you are.”

“Nah.” Clint takes a giant bite. “God, their cheese is so good.” Bucky will never be over the shit Clint eats. Vampires don’t _need_ food — well, this kind of food anyway. They feed off of the blood of humans and animals as well as intense emotions like lust. Probably no other vampire in the entire world has made these kinds of noises over a fuckin’ McMuffin.

“You know, you’re kind of an asshole for taking up the handicapped bathroom,” Bucky tells him. “What if someone needs it?”

“Hey, _I’m_ handicapped at the moment,” Clint retorts. “Besides, I’ll take care of it. Just mojo them into being able to do what they need in the normal bathroom.”

And that’s the other part that always throws Bucky. Clint’s _powerful._ Here he is, sitting on a bathroom floor, eating a McMuffin with no cares in the world — but he’s also keeping all of the staff and customers in this place under enough of a thrall to not notice that anything’s wrong in here. And here he’s saying he’ll be able to get some poor disabled person to be able to walk or stand well enough to use a standard toilet. Clint is strong enough to do all of these things simultaneously, and yet he persistently forgets he’s weak to sunlight and buys Bucky terrible junk food.

It’s fascinating, and Bucky hates that.

“I’m not staying here all day,” he tells Clint, and Clint just smiles knowingly at him, as if to say, _yeah, you are._


	2. The Dumpster

Bucky wonders, occasionally, what it would be like to feel the full force of Clint’s — whammy, mojo, whatever. (Those are Clint’s names for it. Bucky has known Natalia for years, and she uses the proper terms. It’s just Clint, irreverent to the max.) It’s a sort of curious, low-key, pining sort of thing that manifests as his heartbeat quickening any time Clint’s name comes up, let alone they meet. A casual sort of longing to find out what Clint’s lips taste like; what his vampire powers could actually do to Bucky. Given that Clint is devastatingly, stupidly attractive every time Bucky sees him, the thought of his actual - _whammy_ \- gives Bucky the shivers sometimes, late at night. The good kind of shivers, during the good kind of late at night.

Clint flirts, sure, but all vampires flirt. It’s a low-key, very light kind of feeding for them, just scraping a bit off of the top of a conversation. They tend to only do it with close trusted friends, and Bucky has never minded with Natalia; it’s just fun, and if she can something else out of it, that’s even better. But it means Bucky’s pretty sure Clint’s just flirting with him because that’s what vampires _do._

And he doesn’t really mind that, cause Clint’s kind of fun, but he can’t help this undercurrent of curiosity, wondering what would happen if Clint looked back at Bucky with interest.

Although he shoves all of these thoughts behind him as he pulls his car up to an actual dumpster.

“Are you fuckin’ serious,” Bucky demands as he gets out of the car. “Are you actually fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“Are you kidding me,” Clint says from inside the dumpster, sounding delighted. “Did you just go actual old-school Brooklyn on me?”

“Boy, I’ll beatcha ass so hard it’ll come out ya belly button,” Bucky says, drawling his father’s accent intentionally. Clint laughs. “No, Barton, seriously. Are you stuck in a fuckin’ dumpster.”

“Um.” Surprisingly, Clint actually sounds chagrined about this one. “Yeah, I am.”

It’s not quite 19:00, and September in Brooklyn means the sun’s just on its way down. “Have you been in a dumpster all day and you just called Natalia now?”

“Um,” Clint says again. “Maybe?”

Bucky sighs, presses his fingers into his nose, and wonders why on earth he likes this guy at all.

“She sent me with a blanket,” he tells Clint after a moment of silence.

“Oh, thank fuck, just shove it through that crack.”

That crack. In the dumpster. Where Clint’s been all day. “You are in a dumpster,” Bucky says, as if he’s talking to a child. “With a crack in it.”

“It’s a fuckin’ dumpster, man, it’s not like they keep them in tip-top shape.”

Bucky stalks around the dumpster. There’s a crack through the lip, where it’s crumpled a bit too much, such that the lid doesn’t close. “Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky mutters, and then stuffs the blanket through the crack. He can hear Clint grabbing it, wrapping it around himself, and then smells the ozone scent of fae magic as something in it activates.

“That’s better,” Clint says smugly.

An hour or so later Clint climbs out of the dumpster and hands the blanket back. Bucky watches as he scrubs his fingers through his hair, trying to release what looks like an entire bag of Cheetos. Bucky stands by the dumpster, noting that Clint has paper stuck to the bottom of his sneaker and a stain up the back of his t-shirt. He is unfairly gorgeous even covered in other people’s garbage, but that’s how vampires _are_.

“Thanks.” Clint looks up, hair tousled, and gives Bucky an oddly sharp grin. “What’s a man gotta do to take you out for a drink?” And Bucky’s hit with such a strong desire to walk over there and kiss Clint senseless - even very much covered in _trash_ , his nose reminds him - that he figures Clint must be whammying him unintentionally.

“A shower,” Bucky deadpans, “and a nicer location.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “I guess dumpster diving isn’t exactly romantic, is it?”

“No, Clint,” Bucky says with a sigh. “It really isn’t.” He wishes Clint would turn it _off._ He wants to know what it feels like, but only if Clint wants to do it, well, intentionally. Being hit with it at random is making his skin buzz, and his werewolf senses are all getting a bit scrambled. “Why were you in a dumpster anyway?”

Now Clint’s smile goes sly and hungry and Bucky feels like he’s hit in the gut with a sudden burst of — something. Hunger, lust, desire: it triggers something in his wolf backbrain. He wants to growl. “Oh, it was dinnertime,” Clint says, taking a step closer. He’s dropped something of his usual attitude, some piece of his human persona, and this is the first time Bucky’s seeing a bit of the hunter underneath. “Couple’a tracksuites round here tried to do a B&E, old woman ended up dying.” He tips a shoulder, a half-shrug. “Got a bit caught up taking care of it.”

It’s alluring, enthralling, and it speaks to the piece of Bucky that isn’t human anymore either: the wolf, the pull of the moon, and the need for the hunt and the run. He isn’t sure whether this is Clint’s - mojo - or if Clint’s just letting Bucky see a different side of him. Either way, he won’t be forgetting this any time soon. Looks like there’s something new to think about late at night.

A car horn beeps, and the mood breaks. Clint glances away, shakes out his tee, ruffles through his hair again. “I won’t be eating Cheetos for a while,” he says mournfully. “This is gross.”

Bucky shakes himself out like a dog, hoping Clint doesn’t notice as he reasserts his human side. “Go shower, Clint,” he says, but he says it far more fondly than he means to.


	3. The Freezer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit, note to self, dont get too drunk today to post the remaining chapters. happy hols!

Full moons are very different now that Stevie’s been made. Previously Bucky had two choices: go run some of the higher-crime areas in Brooklyn or Queens, lookin’ for a fight, or take the drug and sleep it off somewhere nearby their apartment. But now that he has Stevie, he has to spend most of their full moons teachin’ Stevie how to be a werewolf.

There are different ways of bein’ what they are.

Bucky, for example, was unwillingly made by one of the cruelest packs in New York State; they’d caught him at the gym and taken him away for experimentation of a sort and, well, the less said about any of that, the better. He’d killed a few of them and escaped with his magical arm - the real one long gone, somewhere Bucky never wanted to find out about - and gone back to Stevie, the one person he knew would be able to manage all of the supernatural bullshit without goin’ spare. All the ways they’d worked him up had made him a pretty strong specimen, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d been unwillingly made.

Stevie, on the other hand, had been willing. Bucky would say eager, but Stevie on his death bed in the hospital as his sad, tired lungs refused to react to the antibiotic hadn’t been eager ‘bout anything except taking his next breath. He’d asked, and Bucky had seen the light in his stupid blue eyes goin’ out, and he’d done it right there in the hospital room, discovery be damned. (He did lock the door, at least. He isn’t stupid.)

Bucky’s strong, he has a magical arm, and he’s got a couple other surprises most weres don’t have. ( _Yes, they’re not all wolves, Steve. No, I can’t give you a list._ ) But Steve is just — being a werewolf suits him, an’ because he got to choose it, it took over his entire sick little body and _changed_ it. Steve’s huge now, chest and arms and abs that shrimpy little Stevie would never have even dreamed of. Steve, of course, is having the time of his life. He’s still so goddamn elated to be (a) alive and (b) a werewolf, and his enthusiasm is arguably too adorable for anyone to be truly offended.

So on full moons they go out into Brooklyn, somewhere like Prospect Park or down by Garritsen Beach, and Bucky shows Steve what they can do. They don’t really look at all like dogs, but Bucky’s an expert at drawin’ on his power and making people think they’re just seeing strays. Weres always change at the full moon, and none can change on the new moon. The in-between days all depend on willpower, strength, and training.

So he’s been out with Stevie all night,

The moon sets round 7:30. Bucky’s got them back to his place, and the second he feels it slip below the horizon Stevie’s changin’ back, breathing hard as his body wrenches itself from one form to another. Bucky can smell the pain, the hint of blood rushing to the surface as the moon tears his other form away. Steve’s too new to change on any other day willingly, but Bucky can tell he’ll get it eventually.

He wraps himself around Steve, who’s shivering from it all. Bucky’s wolf is grey, fading to black paws - except the magical one, which is pigmentless white. It isn’t great for stealth, but Bucky’s powers can take care of that. He sends soothing vibes out, nearly purring, and flops over Steve’s lap. His heart hurts for Steve on this learning curve; he remembers how awful it can be.

Which is why when his phone rings around 17:00, Bucky shifts back into his human form, grumpy and mean with it.

“What,” he growls at Natalia.

“You know what,” she says calmly. “I will owe you two moonfavors for this.”

And now Bucky’s standing outside Black Nile, extra grumpy because everything smells delicious but no, he has to go rescue a fucking dumbass vampire from the restaurant.

“A freezer, Clint?” He yells once the sun has set and he yanks the door open with force. There’s too much full moon still in his blood and Stevie’s back home hurtin’ and Clint’s shut himself into a _freezer_ and Bucky has no idea what kind of damage that can do to an undead body but he can _not_ deal with his two best and most fuckin’ dumbass friends being hurt today. “A fuckin’ freezer?”

“’S not like I can _die,_ man,” Clint snaps back, but his teeth are chattering and his fingers are white and the stupid motherfucker is wearing a _tee-shirt and jeans with holes in them._ Bucky wants to scream.

He yanks his hoodie over his head and stalks over to Clint in four angry steps, shoving it down over his stupid blond head. Clint wriggles out and manages to get his arms through the sleeves. “Give it back next time you absolutely fuck something up and have to call me,” Bucky growls, and turns to leave.

“Hey, Buck.”

There’s something so small in Clint’s voice, a sort of vulnerable note Bucky has _never_ heard from him before. “Look, lemme buy you dinner, something. This is a nice place. D-D’you like seafood?”

Bucky sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose until it hurts and turns back to Clint.

“Gotta get home and take care of Stevie,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “He had a rough change. Please do me a _favor_ and make it back to your lair for the next few _weeks,_ please.”

He doesn’t mean to let all of this frustration out, mainly because it’s all worry: worry for Steve, worry for Clint, worry about the rumors going around about the upcoming Winter Summit. He works so hard because he doesn’t want to _lose_ anyone.

He glances up at Clint and can’t read the look on his face. Clint smells like freshly-baked bread and ice and bloodtang and _tension,_ curled up in his shoulders, in the tightness of his lips.

“Just,” Bucky says, suddenly exhausted. He turns to go. “Just be _careful,_ Clint.”


	4. The Osprey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEV. DONT GET SO DRUNK YOU FORGET TO POST THE END OF THIS. FUCK.

7 pm is far past nightfall in Brooklyn in the winter, so for once, Bucky doesn’t have to worry about Clint burning his arm off or anything. He’s waiting outside his apartment building when a limo pulls up to the curb. Bucky blinks; he’s wearing nice jeans and a button-down and his shit kickin’ boots cause he doesn’t go out at night without them. A limo? He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly wishing he could tie it up in a bun.

The window rolls down. “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”

“Clint,” Bucky greets him, pushing off of the wall and stalking over to the limo. He opens the door and slides into the back seat, across from where Clint is sitting. “Aren’t we going to dinner?”

“It’s a line from — oh my god, just forget it,” Clint says, and then Bucky’s eyes really take him in and he swallows any smart response he might have had.

Clint’s wearing an actual suit. Nothing too proper, and the grey jacket’s on the seat next to him, probably picking up wrinkles, but it’s a stylish cut and fabric. He’s wearing an actual waistcoat in a deep purple over a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He looks so delicious that for a moment Bucky’s enveloped in that heat again, wanting to throw his body across the gap between them and taste. It must be a werewolf thing, then; it’s been a while since Bucky found anyone this devastatingly attractive.

Clint must be noticing, because there’s a faintly smug smile hovering around his mouth, but he says nothing.

“You’re gonna have to turn around if I’ve gotta change,” Bucky says in his flattest Brooklyn accent, and the shadow turns into a real smile, corners turning up and how the fuck are dimples sexy anyway.

“You’re fine,” Clint tells him, with an exaggerated look down Bucky’s body and back up. It’s at least appreciative, so Clint isn’t making fun of him. “I’m just dressed for ...work.” The way he says it makes Bucky wonder what it sounds like when Clint says pleasure instead. He needs to calm his stupid brain down.

“I’ll wear a tie next time,” Bucky shoots back, and Clint laughs, low and thrilling.

“Is that a tease or a promise?” Clint asks, and Bucky is not blushing because werewolves don’t blush. Ever. It’s a new rule he just came up with himself. He’ll tell Stevie later. It can be their first pack rule.

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks.

“Oh,” Clint says, so casually Bucky immediately gets suspicious. “Do you know The Osprey?”

Bucky blinks. “What, that fancy-ass place attached to the hotel? Shit, will they let me in wearing jeans?”

Clint gives him that smirk again, the one that shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “As long as you’re with me, they’d let you in naked.”

“What,” Bucky shoots back, because it’s so much better than letting his brain run away with that particular statement. “They a sex club now, too?”

Clint snorts, and sits back in his seat, and Bucky figures he may have won that round.

The Osprey is… not exactly what Bucky expected. Yeah, it’s fancy as fuck, in a way that always sets Bucky’s poor-boy-in-Brooklyn ass off-balance, but it’s also… just nice. High ceilings, with potted vines hanging, lights draped between the plants. There are a bunch of feathers in frames at the back wall. It feels… fancy, but a comfortable fancy, balanced with all of the wood and greenery in the place.

The feeling lasts exactly as long as it takes Bucky to look at the menu. His eyes fall onto a page of $18 cocktails and he makes a choking noise in the back of his throat. He’s a supernatural creature that spends most of his money on Stevie and covering his own fucking blunders; he doesn’t have this kind of money. Fucking Natalia.

“Nope, nope,” says Clint, and Bucky isn’t paying enough attention because Clint manages to snag his menu before Bucky can protest. “Let me take care of this.”

Bucky wants to fume about it - rude - but he’s also really curious as to what Clint might pick for him. It’s hard to say whether or not they really know each other; Bucky has saved Clint from a pretty large number of situations, and they run into each other a lot, but he isn’t sure whether that qualifies them as the kind of friends that know each other well enough to order for each other. So — it’s interesting. He decides to be intrigued rather than insulted.

Their waiter goes to Clint immediately, and Bucky leans back into his chair with an arm over the back, watching intently as Clint orders. Clint’s careful to be quiet and Bucky doesn’t use any of his werewolf senses to cheat. He really is curious as to what Clint will pick for him.

A new server brings over a bottle of red wine. Okay, Bucky likes red; this is starting out alright. He leans back into the table as the server pours. “So why are we actually here?”

Clint tilts his head. “What, am I not allowed to try to romance a gorgeous werewolf? That seems…” He trails off. “Species-ist?”

Bucky barks a laugh. He breathes in the wine; with his enhanced senses, he can smell a blinding number of flavors: the vapor of the alcohol and the faint flavor of the glass, and then a rich swirl of berries that tickle his nose. He isn’t really into the whole wine-tasting thing where you try to tell a raspberry from a blackberry, but he does enjoy red wine. The taste is so rich and complex it drowns out his more sensitive taste buds and just tastes good.

“No, Clint,” Bucky says, the warmth of the flavor making him feel a bit mellow. “Why did Natalia tell me to go to dinner with you?”

Clint frowns. It’s a bit playful, but maybe not as much as expected? “You’re here to talk business. Of course.”

Bucky fidgets in his chair. He’s wearing nice jeans and shit-kicker boots and his shirt’s a nice one but he didn’t expect this to be weird because he’s here on business isn’t he? Isn’t Clint? “Natalia suggested we get together and talk about security?” Cause… sure, there’s a part of him that would love this to be a nice intimate date, he and Clint across the table from each other in this lovely warm natural bar with its plants and wood and feathers. He would love a comfortable date like this. But that isn’t how this all started, is it?

Clint’s eyeroll is so dramatic Bucky figures they’re on the same page. Clint flirts; it’s just part of his persona. Vampires do that. He’s known Natalia for a long while and she still flirts with him. Bucky doesn’t mind; it’s a high-level, very light form of feeding for them, and he enjoys that kind of banter, and if his friends can benefit from it the more the better.

“Always ruining my moments.” Clint sighs, dramatically, and Bucky thinks there might be an actual note of something wistful in it — or maybe that’s just his own wistful thinking.

He can’t stop himself from giving Clint the kind of look he hopes is something sultry and saying, “There’s always dessert.”

Clint’s eyes flare with that for a second, and Bucky gets a whiff of - something: something thick and full of vampire magic and that weirdly comforting scent Clint gives off that reminds Bucky of rising dough - and then Clint’s face settles, all of that mysterious and intriguing emotion locked away. “But first, business.”

To his surprise a server approaches the table, and she sets down a plate of what looks like fried brussels sprouts, a plate of something made with mushrooms that looks suspiciously delicious, and a pair of salads he simply glances at. It isn’t that it smells bad - it smells amazing - but Bucky can’t help but say, “What, where’s the meat?”

Clint laughs. “Don’t worry, wolf. There’s plenty of meat coming your way.”

“I feel like that’s just a come on,” Bucky says, watching as Clint’s eyes crinkle and his mouth relaxes.

“It could be,” Clint offers, and Bucky needs to stop wondering how much of Clint’s flirting is his nature and how much is for him, because this is going to be bad for his heart. And, probably, his ego.

The brussels sprouts are surprisingly delicious, crisped up to be crunchy with just a bit of heat to them. “These are good,” he tells Clint, who preens. “Alright. So what put the bug up Natalia’s ass?”

“Sounds kinky,” Clint says with a grin. He spears a bit of the mushroom-and-goat-cheese thing onto his fork and savors it for a while in his mouth, eyes actually fluttering a bit. “So, I probably shouldn’t be this blunt about it, but there are rumors that Winter’s Soldiers are showing up this year.”

Bucky freezes. Winter’s Soldiers are the best of the best in the Winter Court, clever and nasty and hungry. They don’t show up unless there’s something very, very wrong. The group that took Bucky and made him what he is had a few ex-Soldiers running the entire show, who had been removed from the Winter Court for being too ruthless.

It’s an odd grudge to have. Bucky knows Winter’s Soldiers aren’t directly responsible for what happened to him but he still ends up filled with this intensely sharp rage, edged with fear, whenever he thinks of them.

Clint’s watching him very carefully. “That went better than I expected.”

Bucky takes a very angry bite of salad. “I shouldn’t go,” he says. He isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep his composure, not with all the shitty memories he’s carrying around. Werewolves have perfect recall, of course.

“Nah, that’s why you have to go,” Clint says. He points his fork at Bucky and then snags a brussels sprout. “People know what happened to you. Not everyone, but the important ones do.” He chews, thinking. “You gotta be there, with Stevie, and with us.”

They’re interrupted by the waiter again, who sets down three plates, to Bucky’s surprise. The one in front of him is a sizable piece of strip steak, accompanied by what are probably the fanciest fuckin’ fries Bucky’s ever seen. Still, a giant slab of steak barely cooked with fries is exactly the kind of thing Bucky would order for himself. The second plate looks to have an entire fuckin’ rotisserie chicken on it. The plate that gets set in front of Clint is, of course, a burger.

“Thank you,” Clint says to the waiter, and Bucky can sense just a glimmer of his glamour twinkling at the waiter, who blushes.

“We’re here at the Osprey and you order a burger.” Bucky picks up his steak knife and cuts into the beef in front of him. It’s nearly raw and god, the first bite is tender, just meat and butter in his mouth. Bucky could probably eat five of these in a row. He absolutely doesn’t want to know how much it costs.

“I’m just here for the eye candy,” says Clint, and isn’t that flirting? “Got you a whole chicken too. I know how you like your meat. It’s like, Jamaican jerkhole or something.”

“You’re a jerkhole,” Bucky says, because the steak is blowing his mind. He wants to tear into the entire chicken like an animal. He hasn’t fed this well in days. If Clint were trying to woo him, he’s picked exactly what Bucky likes.

“I knew you’d be in a better mood once you had some piece of animal in your mouth.” Clint takes an incredibly large bite of his burger, like a child. It’s always interesting, the things Clint will eat; he doesn’t need any of them, but the things he chooses to eat are always strange. Bucky would figure a vampire’s taste would run to the bloody steak he’s practically inhaling, but Clint likes greasy carbs and pizza and nachos. He’s a terrible vampire.

Bucky tries the chicken. It’s equally amazing.

“You realize that I’ll clean both of these plates and look ridiculous,” he tells Clint.

Clint simply grins around another obscene bite of the burger. “I’ve got your back.”


	5. The Winter Summit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok now that all the other gifts have posted, i can post these last two without feeling like im flooding the tag, yay

“Oh, wait up,” says a low voice into his ear, a cool hand pressing itself into the small of his back. “You wouldn’t leave me stranded on the dance floor, would you?”

His nose tells him it’s Clint: the bloodtang scent of vampire mixed with something comforting like the scent of bread rising, simple and straightforward. If Bucky were to lean the slightest bit backwards he might end up leaning against Clint’s broad chest. No, that’s a terrible idea.

“Fine,” he says, wishing he sounded more resigned rather than eager.

“That’s better,” says Clint, and one broad hand pulls Bucky in at the waist, and Bucky wills his body not to react too much. Weres are usually more in control of their bodies than the other supernatural species; however, it’s hard when he scents out Clint’s cologne under his usual smells and it hits his backbrain like an electrified hammer.

“Yeah, c’mere, lean in like you like me,” Clint murmurs, and Bucky finds himself wrapping his hand around Clint’s shoulder far too close to the nape of his neck. “Alright, now lean on me a bit, and don’t react, because something’s going on.”

Something _is_ going on. Bucky’s wolf senses have honed in on something they would very much like to sink their teeth into. It’s hard to tell if — wait, what?

“There you go,” Clint murmurs. He turns Bucky a bit, leading with confidence. His voice is low and rich and he probably isn’t even doing _anything_ with his powers so why is Bucky suddenly so very warm? “Over my shoulder, hook your chin on it if you can. Man, you’re a little short for a werewolf, aren’t you?”

“I hate you a lot right now,” Bucky murmurs, but does as he’s told. “Right. Lots of fairy lights - hey, is that an insulting term? - and the upstairs balcony.”

“See anybody?”

Bucky pulls his senses forward. In the darkness of the balcony his wolf eyes will be better; they can see more sharply and catch movement, but Bucky doesn’t see anything at all.

“No,” he says, pulling back off of Clint’s shoulder. For a second he dares to press his face against Clint’s, breathing in his scent. “What’s going on?”

“No one’s there,” Clint whispers in his ear, “right? We had two guards posted up there and they just sent to Natasha that they’ve investigating a break-in.”

Bucky growls low in his chest. “Who the fuck is stupid enough to break into the Winter Summit?”

He can feel Clint’s shrug, this close, feel the way the muscles move under his hand. “I dunno. Desperate thieves? Anti-vampire vigilantes? Werewolf hunters? Axe murderers?” Bucky snorts at the last one and he can feel the sense of Clint’s smile. “They haven't sent anything back to me yet. Which isn’t good.”

———

Three minutes later they’re up on that balcony themselves, tucked into one of the darker corners.

“Someone’s coming,” Bucky whispers, cause his wolf senses can hear someone climbing the stairs.

“Pretend you like me, then,” Clint murmurs, and he shifts just a bit closer so that he’s pressing Bucky into the corner, oddly tender. Bucky looks up and Clint’s smiling wryly, almost apologetic, as he dips his head and leans in. They aren’t _quite_ close enough to kiss, but it wouldn’t take much for it to happen. “Won’t take advantage, Buck, just givin’ us some camouflage.”

Bucky’s stuck for a long moment looking up at Clint, catching something nearly regretful in Clint’s eyes — and then those eyes flash, red and otherworldly, and a wave of _want_ punches Bucky in the gut.

It’s hunger on every level of the word: lust, need, desperation, liquid _desire._ The air’s thick with it. Bucky’s eyes close, helpless against it, and then a second after his wolf comes roaring up to the surface in a rush. It’s confused: half of it is his protective wolf, sensing a vampire threat and ready to jump to his defense; the other half is his wolf’s _hunger,_ adding fuel to an already burning fire. His blood is simmering and his hands are on Clint’s chest and he opens his eyes, panting, hauling in breath like he’s drowning.

Clint’s no longer a breath away from kissing him; instead, Clint’s got his face pressed into Bucky’s neck. “Shit,” he’s saying, “think I miscalculated that one,” but his lips are moving right at the edge of Bucky’s shirt collar; Bucky can feel it on his bare skin. “Why do you smell so _good.”_ Clint makes some kind of noise and nudges his nose along Bucky’s jawline, back to his ear; Bucky lets his head drop back against the wall to offer more access. “Why’d’you always smell so good, Buck?”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky manages, because Clint has pressed the smallest and slowest lick of his tongue into Bucky’s skin - his vulnerable neck - and Bucky isn’t sure whether this is a wolf thing, or a vampire thing, or if this is just how he and Clint are when they aren’t sniping at each other through the trunk of a car but he’s almost shaking, all of this want and hunger inside him, and this is a bad idea because —? Is it a bad idea anymore when his claws are threatening to break through his fingertips, leave five-and-five little puncture holes in Clint’s jacket, and he gets the feeling that Clint would like it, because—

—the pack bond breaks through a split second before Bucky lets his wolf side see how good it is at tearing clothes, which is good, cause it turns out it’s Stevie they want, after all.

———

Fifteen minutes later they’ve taken out a half-dozen ordinary goons and probably another half-dozen trolls (not that they aren’t all trolls and worse in Bucky’s opinion, but this time, he means it literally) and that’s when somebody gets a dart in Steve and Bucky ends up on his knees, jaw clenched, as he tries to jettison his own were magic into Stevie to help fight the tranq.

“Shit, shit!” Bucky’s teeth are chattering and he can feel Steve concentrating on it as well, and he reaches out mentally - it’s just like leaning in and nudging someone with an elbow, except it’s nothing like - and pours everything he’s got into Steve’s bloodstream.

He loses, of course, but he’s sent on enough that Steve’s gonna be awake again _real_ soon and that fucker that dosed him isn’t gonna be ready for an angry, righteous Stevie Rogers.

When he glances up, Clint’s standing guard over him; he’s lost his jacket and the white shirt underneath is sprayed liberally with blood and he’s got what looks like a table leg over his shoulder like it’s a baseball bat.

“You’re fighting with a stake,” Bucky says wearily as he lets Clint pull him up. “Of course you are.”

Clint shrugs and drops his hand a little too quickly, glancing away. Bucky realizes Clint’s here, rather than back with his seethe; Clint stood here and protected Bucky while he helped Stevie fight the juice. Bucky can also smell Clint’s awkwardness, as if he’s worried a line somewhere has been crossed.

“Clint,” Bucky says, and grins when Clint finally meets his eyes. “You wanna go out for dinner sometime?”

“Now?” Clint gapes and it’s maybe the least attractive expression Bucky’s ever seen on him. “You’re doing this now? Of course you’re doing this now.”

“Yeah,” Bucky tells him, and doesn’t miss the way Clint’s eyes drop to his mouth and then flick back. “I mean, after we get Stevie back, an’ all.”

Clint sighs and rolls his eyes far worse than Bucky’s ever done, but he’s smiling as he does it.


	6. The Pub

It’s Bucky’s favorite local pub, so this time he takes the initiative and orders for Clint. Funny, ordering for a vampire: things he never expected to do. But he gets Clint the mushroom and swiss burger because it comes with an onion ring and it’s super messy, and it’ll be funny to watch it fall apart as Clint tries to eat it with his usual gusto. Bucky, of course, is having a dozen barbecue wings and the bone-in ribeye, which will be 18 ounces of raw deliciousness. Bucky realizes in retrospect he’s extra hungry around Clint. Well, it makes sense now.

Their date has been …nice. Which is a funny word to use for a vampire who sucks at it and a werewolf who never wanted to be one, but it is. This place isn’t nearly as fancy as The Osprey, but it’s classy enough; they’re both drinking local microbrews, and Clint’s enamored by the wall decorations, which are all old circus posters.

“How’s Steve doing?” Clint asks once Bucky’s done ordering.

“Christ.” Bucky rubs his hands over his face. “Still a smug little fuck about it, man.” Steve’s enhanced metabolism combined with Bucky’s own power had ripped through the tranquilizer in record time and Steve had managed his very first partial transformation - jaw elongated, teeth showing, claws out - and hadn’t shut up about it since. Which is great - most weres can’t manage a partial for a few years - but Bucky’s a bit tired of Steve reaching out with a furry paw and smacking him in the arm. “I almost wish he’d been more traumatized, just to put it in perspective.”

Clint snorts. “I’m glad he’s okay, though.”

“Should have left him unconscious longer,” Bucky grumbles, but he can’t really be that mad about it. Steve’s still so fuckin’ chuffed to be alive and breathing, and what can he really say to that? “Anything new from your new… friends?”

They’d managed to capture two of the individuals behind it: both of them part-fae humans, and other than some generalized hissing about creating new and glorious soldiers (and a bit of really bad glamour) they hadn’t talked too much. Natalia had graciously invited them to stay with her seethe while she negotiated for reparations with the Winter Court. The dungeons in the basement of her home are sleek, comfortable, and absolutely terrifying.

“Nothing yet,” Clint says. “I’d like to read them, but Nat says I have to wait. Politics and all.” Bucky isn’t quite sure how a vampire might read someone, but having felt just a bit of Clint’s power in action, it seems plausible.

Once their food arrives they’re both a bit distracted; Clint goes into raptures over the sloppy burger, even when it falls apart all over his nice shirt, and Bucky very calmly puts away his pounds of meat while they talk. Should it be this comfortable? Does it matter? He keeps catching Clint’s eye across the table, and Clint keeps blushing, which makes no sense. Vampires shouldn’t be able to blush. Then again, Clint is a pretty terrible vampire, isn’t he.

At some point Bucky catches his eye and holds it, and Clint ends up chuckling kind of self-deprecatingly. “Sorry, Buck, this is still a little bit surreal to me, that you’re …that we’re here.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Clint, you’re a vampire,” he points out, probably for the four hundred and twenty-seventh time in their relationship. “You have to have known I was interested.”

“That isn’t,” Clint starts, and his hands make some kind of aborted gesture. “I’ll show you, someday. That isn’t exactly what it’s like. I was afraid I was—” Here he makes some kind of gesture from his forehead to Bucky, and repeats it. “It’s hard to tell with wolves, okay?”

Bucky’s wolf starts a low growl of anticipation inside him, and Bucky lets himself grin slowly. “Well,” he says, letting just a bit of that hunger out in his voice. “Let me make it clear, then. I’m interested.”

Clint’s eyes go dark in a flash, and Bucky feels a faint wave of what he now recognizes as Clint’s - whammy? Mojo? He’s going to have to ask the proper term, if he’s going to be dating a vampire - that trickles down his spine like heat. “Is this where we get really cliche and ask for the check?”

“Or even more cliche and go fuck in the bathroom,” Bucky suggests, and _wow_ that wasn’t supposed to actually come out of his mouth, but it sure did.

Clint closes his eyes and Bucky can smell the way he’s trying to restrain himself. “You can’t just _say_ that,” he says, whining the same way he did into Bucky’s neck. “I don’t want to - accidentally - do the thing.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, moving to reach across the table for Clint’s hand. “Clint. Guess what.”

He waits until Clint’s looking up at him. He can still see that _want_ in Clint’s eyes, and he likes that, knowing that it’s for him. “I’m a werewolf. You’re a terrible vampire. I have no idea how we’re going to …interact, y’know, both of our magics.” He stops, takes a breath. “I don’t mind if you whammy me a bit,” he admits, and Clint’s mouth quirks upwards. “As long as you tell me you’re doing it.”

Clint watches him a moment. Bucky breathes in; Clint smells like burger and fresh bread and the metallic bloodtang of vampire. He smells like laundry detergent and woodsy cologne and salt-sweet with want. “How did _you_ not know I was interested?”

Bucky frowns, not having expected that. “It’s different with vampires,” he says finally. “You all — flirt. You all feed a bit. And…” He shrugs, a bit self-conscious. “The wolf sometimes can’t decide whether vamps are something we need to fight or something we want to, well. Bite.”

“You can bite me,” Clint tells him, all serious except for the giant shit-eating lopsided grin. “If you want.” He follows it up with a very conspicuous wink and an eye-waggle that’s probably supposed to be lascivious and just ends up looking goofy.

“Thanks,” Bucky deadpans.

“Anyway.” Clint glances away, fiddles with his fork a bit, then looks back up. “I know I’m a pretty unusual vampire, but did you really think I kept getting caught in places because I was that forgetful?”

Bucky stares. Clint has _got_ to be kidding. “Are you serious.”

Clint shrugs, actually looking a bit shy. “Okay. _Some_ of it was unintentional. But Nat sent you every time!”

“You risked your fucking undead eternal life,” Bucky says slowly, just to make sure he understands. “So that I would come see you. Instead of just, you know, asking me out on a date?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds stupid,” Clint tells him.

“Oh look,” Bucky says, because he sees their server approaching. “There’s the check.”

They don’t end up in the pub bathroom, mainly because Bucky would like to come back here in the future, but he can’t really be blamed for tugging Clint into the alleyway behind it and shoving him up against the brick wall. Clint kisses like he’s desperate to taste, to have, and Bucky finds he can trace his tongue over Clint’s teeth and feel the shadow of the fangs he knows are there. It’s intoxicating. Clint’s hands are all over Bucky’s back, in his hair, cheekily grabbing at his ass to tug him closer; Clint’s body is cool like most vampires but whatever mojo he’s putting out gives the sensation of warmth, such that Bucky presses him even harder into the brick. Good thing neither of them can feel the chill.

Bucky lets his wolf out just a bit more and tugs back Clint’s shirt to breathe in the space where neck meets shoulder. “You shouldn’t even talk, you smell so good,” he says, and Clint’s groan as he sucks at that spot is incredibly satisfying.

Clint’s hands slide down Bucky’s torso to grab at the waist of his jeans, and Clint leaves them there, fingers _just_ down Bucky’s pants and wow, _shit,_ Bucky kind of wants him to slip his hands into his boxers _right here_ , fuck the pub.

“Hey,” Clint murmurs, and then nibbles Bucky’s ear; Bucky shivers. “Wanna see a cool vampire trick?”

“Of course.” Bucky tilts his head so that Clint can get better access to that sensitive tendon. Makes sense that a vampire would be good with their mouth, but wow, Clint’s _tongue._

“Hang on,” Clint tells him, and there’s another burst of that dark red bloodtang magic, and then they’re in a space that smells enough like Clint and vampire and comfort that it has to be his own private lair.

“Wait,” Bucky says, and pulls his own mouth away from where it’s been exploring Clint’s collarbone. “You can teleport?”

“Just to my lair,” Clint says, shrugging.

“You can teleport.” Bucky stares at him. “To your lair.”

Clint frowns. “What, like it’s hard?”

“I rescued you from the trunk of a car,” Bucky says. “When you can teleport. To your lair.”

“Oh,” Clint says. “I mean, yeah. I guess.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Bucky says, advancing on Clint, and Clint’s grinning now, grabbing at Bucky again, backing up to what looks like the most ridiculously extravagant bed Bucky’s ever seen in his life. “I’m going to kill you so hard.”

Clint makes some sort of move, too fast for even Bucky’s wolf to follow, and then suddenly Bucky’s on the bed, tugged the whole way on top of Clint’s body, and he can’t help but _groan_ feeling all of Clint against him. Clint wraps a leg around Bucky’s waist, and tugs at his hair so that Bucky’s looking at him. “Go ahead,” Clint says, all low grumble and heat. “Make it good, then.”

So Bucky does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's that, folks! Hope you enjoyed this little exploration!
> 
> There's an entire story about the Winter Summit that really tried to happen, and it might someday, since apparently this universe is now a thing. (There's also so much fucking porn I could write in this universe. So much.)
> 
> Thanks for your comments and your love! Come yell at me at any of the links below!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks EVERYBODY for such a great WHWL 2020!! 
> 
> HIT ME UP: [tumblr](https://sevdrag.tumblr.com/) | [discord and other fun places](https://seventhe.dreamwidth.org/435490.html) | [art etc](https://https//www.instagram.com/sevdrag/)


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